Experimentation
by HeartsandEyesDelight
Summary: "Maybe it was an ego thing." GSR.


Disclaimer: I don't own CSI.

A/N: So I've been working on this one for quite some time, and finally finished it as part of my Christmas present to my amazing beta, Pati. :) So, this one is for her. (And thanks to her, because she insisted on beta-ing her own present. Lol.)

Fair warning, before you read ahead: This deals with mature sexual content of a... slightly unorthodox? ...nature. Read responsibly. Thanks!

Enjoy!

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><p>Maybe it was an ego thing.<p>

He had to admit he'd never had so much trouble pleasing a woman before. He'd actually been a little… smug… about it. He knew enough about the statistics of the matter—and had gauged the reactions of some of his more experienced partners—and so he knew that he had the equipment to do the job, so to speak. But it was not all about size, he knew. He had had remarkable success with hand and mouth, as well, and had proven to a couple of former conquests that they could, indeed, have multiples.

He was not about to claim that he was a catch by any means. On the contrary, he knew for a fact that he was not. He was a middle-aged workaholic who'd never outgrown his little boy obsession with bugs. He kept odd hours, he often felt more comfortable around the dead than the living, and he'd spent the majority of his life in silence… Or, at least, the near-silent calm of a perfectly delivered aria serving as background music to his solitary musings.

So, no, it was not that he believed he had much to offer any woman, really. He had decades of experience that spoke to that fact. But this… this was something he could take some amount of pride in. This was the one thing he had been certain he could offer her, when he began this frightening journey. She was young and beautiful and held his heart in the palms of her hands, but even if he couldn't go as often as a man her age might have been able to, he knew that she would always be thoroughly satisfied when he was done with her.

No. Not just satisfied. She would be exhausted. She wouldn't be able to move for hours, and she wouldn't walk right for a week. He would have worked himself into a heart attack in an attempt to give her the most fulfilling sexual experience of her life, each and every time. She would never be able to say that she'd left him (as it was certain she would, sooner or later) because he hadn't been able to please her. And maybe just a little part of him wanted her to take those memories with her, when she did go. A part of him wanted to know that even if he had fallen short in every other area and lost her once he'd finally taken the risk to be with her, she would not be able to let another man touch her without longing for the things he could do to her instead.

Okay, so it was definitely an ego thing.

But that wasn't all of it. Oh no. This was legitimately for her as well. …She had to be wound up tighter than hell.

He let his eyes caress her form as he considered that possibility.

He knew that she masturbated. She had blushed and changed the subject when, having had tonight in mind, he'd requested that she not do so in the week leading up… but he knew it. Her temper had been closer to the surface in this last week than he'd seen it in years. And the woman was not afraid of toys in the bedroom. So yes, she clearly had been sleeping with him, and then actually going to sleep with him, and then going home and taking care of the problem—the problem that he could not seem to solve for the life of him—herself.

It was gratifying to know that she'd honored his request, at least.

He had to admit, initially he'd thought there was something wrong with her. …That sounds bad, but when a man has a track record like his, he doesn't really want to think that the one woman it really matters with is the one women upon whom his skills have no… explosive… effects.

Well, no, that wasn't his _first_ thought.

His first thought was that, difficult as she was to send over that precipice, it would be that much more satisfying when he heard her wail. Eventually, she'd stopped him, telling him she didn't think it was going to happen. That sometimes that just happened. He wanted to tell her no—insist that he be allowed to continue until she came, screaming his name—but it was their first time together. So he'd respectfully allowed it to pass, apologizing sheepishly and trying to hide his shame, knowing that she would not be there when he woke up.

Not only was she there, but she looked giddy—like the cat who ate the canary—and couldn't stop touching him. She said she'd never slept so well, and was on top of him before he was even fully awake. In retrospect, maybe that was because she'd gone unfulfilled the night before. Still, the fact that she'd stayed… It gave him hope, and he tried his damndest the second time around.

This time, she too seemed frustrated, but not at him. She was putty in his capable hands in terms of her responses—they just didn't seem to get her anywhere. She was rolling her head on the pillow, clenched tightly around him like her life depended on it, and louder than he ever imagined she would be—could be—but _it_ didn't happen. Instead, she told him to go without her.

"I can finish you." He insisted, panting above her.

"I… I don't think I can." She admitted, with tears in her eyes, looking as ashamed as he felt.

That was when he thought there might be something wrong with her. Although the idea of a physical problem crossed his mind, it was dismissed fairly quickly. Wouldn't that kind of thing have been discovered by now? …Maybe not, but his mind had already moved on to other things. Like her past. Her childhood. The details of the abuse that hadn't been shared with him.

Rather than finishing himself, he pulled out of her, trying desperately to ignore the ache in the erection that had gotten ample stimulation but no relief for nearly an hour now. No one had ever told him he was a tactful man, but he recognized that she was distressed and blaming herself—probably as afraid of his disappointment as he'd been of hers the night before—and so he wrapped her up in his arms and kissed her temple, tenderly, trying to convey all the empathy he would never be able to get into words. After a long moment, he felt her shudder against him, at which point he realized that she was crying. Not sitting with welled-up eyes, but silently sobbing against his sweaty, heaving chest.

He would be the first to admit he was bewildered as to what to do just then, but an instinct of some kind must have kicked in, because he found himself holding her close and murmuring softly and stroking her hair, until she choked out, "I've never had this problem before! God, I'm so _sorry_!"

…Never had this problem before? With _anyone_? That killed both of his theories and any self esteem he'd had left at that point in one fell swoop.

They tried to move their relationship forward, despite the elephant in the room—had fancy dinners before shift and cozy breakfasts after, and she still seemed to want to try… But this only led to more failures. More embarrassment and more frustration and more awkwardness between them. He started avoiding intimacy, while she clung to it desperately, insisting that she must just be nervous and that it would get better. He didn't have words to express his own sense of inadequacy, but he also didn't have the strength of will to turn her down when she turned those dark chocolate bedroom eyes on him in full force.

It had been a few months—five, six maybe—since that first pivotal encounter, and the status quo was that they would have sex, often. He would come, she would not. He would apologize, hesitate to finish, try to hold out… and she would writhe and plead with him to let himself go, apologizing as fervently as he was.

The minute he'd finished and pulled out of her, no more apologies were exchanged. It was too much to try to verbalize that, out of the moment. Too much to expect the same level of acceptance when they were not so tightly entwined.

He would never tell her how his… hypothesis… had occurred to him, but once it had, it rang with so much rightness and truth that he could not truly consider himself a scientist without testing it. …The only way to do that, of course, was to run a little experiment.

He could feel himself smiling as his eyes landed on his handiwork. He might have enjoyed planning this a little too much, to consider himself properly unbiased. But a double-blind study wasn't really possible in this case. …A single blind, however, was a perfectly appropriate way to refer to it. Her cheeks reddened under the edges of the black blindfold, and he felt himself throb in response. Oh, but she was beautiful like this.

When he'd suggested that he had an idea—that he wanted to try something—he'd been surprised how willing she was. He wondered, a little guiltily, if that willingness was a result of her own disappointment in herself rather than a genuine openness to all of his suggestions… But regardless, even after he'd told her what he wanted her to wear, there had been no flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. She'd looked at him with all the trust in the world and nodded, the ghost of a smirk on her lips.

Maybe that had been because she had a good deal of the list already among her possessions, apparently. Who could have guessed that his sweet little Sara had a pair of heeled, black, fuck-me boots and fishnet thigh-highs stashed away? Of course, he'd known she'd had a matching black bra and panty set, so the only things to procure…

A blindfold and a harness, both in black silk.

He would never tell her that overhearing someone in a coffee shop reference the infamous Lady Heather while he'd been dwelling on their problem had prompted this attempt at a solution… but the minute it had occurred to him, it had made perfect sense. He knew that there was still an aspect of their relationship that was… borderline unhealthy. He was her mentor and supervisor, and she had wanted him so long—put him up on a pedestal—and so maybe it made sense that she couldn't finish.

After all, how many women would apologize for that instead of blaming the man they were with, especially if they'd had a healthy sexual history prior?

Not many, he knew.

She was so worried about pleasing him that her own lack of pleasure only troubled her because she knew that it was hurting his ego and taking away from his enjoyment. …Maybe, just maybe, she was so worried about making him feel good that her mind was shutting her body down. She wouldn't let herself come, because she didn't want to be a selfish lover. Hadn't she spent the last seven years desperately trying to live up to his expectations? Trying to be his "star pupil" and seeking his approval?

But if she didn't have any control, well…

And even if she didn't orgasm from this experiment, it was proving to be interesting. He was rock hard in his jeans and already breathing heavily, just watching her. She'd come out of his bedroom in the tiny underwear and bra, the thigh-highs and boots, her hair curly around her face, looking a little self-conscious, her palms moving up and down over her exposed stomach in a constant, unconscious gesture, despite how often he'd seen her naked.

This was different, and they both knew it.

And so he'd approached her slowly, kissed first her mouth and then her neck, told her she was beautiful… and then pulled out the harness. Holding her hand in his, he'd guided her to step into the cool silk contraption, which wrapped around the inside of either thigh, high up into the crease between her legs and her satin-and-lace-covered center. Slowly, he fed each of her hands into a silken loop coming from the side of the harness that rested on her hips, each loop connected the other by a short, silver chain behind her back, to restrict her movement. That same thin chain continued up her spine to another loop, this one around her neck. It would not choke her, per se, but rather provide discomfort if she bent in on herself, trying to close herself off from him.

"Touch me." He'd breathed, once the contraption was tightened to stay firmly on her body. Her hands tried to lift to reach out to him, but stopped only a few inches from her sides, unable to move any further. She took a step forward so her hands could grasp his thighs, and looked up at him questioningly—perhaps asking if this was what he wanted, or perhaps what she ought to do next. The dark grin that slid over his face evoked the first flicker of fear in her eyes, and so he kissed her softly again, before pulling away and meeting her eyes with his own. "…Trust me?"

Her nod was solemn, and came with no hesitation. He produced the blindfold, sliding it over her head, into place. She shivered, and he pressed his lips to her ear, intimating softly, "If you want me to stop, at any time, just say so." She nodded again, and he moved back, just to take a moment to look at her.

And, perhaps, a moment to calm himself—he'd never done anything remotely like this, and it was proving to be… intense. The idea that he had absolute control over the beautiful creature before him; that she had allowed him to tie her up and restrain her; that he could make her do almost anything…

As his gaze slid over her and his jeans got tighter, he contemplated exactly how to begin his seduction. It was imperative that she feel completely out of control. She could stop this completely, of course, but if she wanted to continue… she needed to feel like she had no say in what occurred. It was all or nothing.

Skin to skin, he determined after only a little thought. It was a relief to unbutton and unzip and let his aching erection free while he kicked the denim to one side, shortly followed by the soft cotton of his boxers and t-shirt. He was laid bare for her, in more ways than one—he was sincerely invested in this experiment, and if it didn't work...

She had no idea. She was blushing and stirring under his gaze, filled with anxious anticipation, a delicate layer of goose bumps visible even from several feet away, causing her to shiver as they skated over her skin. Slowly, he moved over to her, circling her slowly, watching her head move, following the sounds he made. Even so, when he stood close enough behind her to see the hairs standing up on the back of her neck, she jumped in surprise.

She moaned when his fingertips trailed up her sides from her hips to her beautiful breasts, her hands attempting once more to lift from their place at her side and stopping when she realized she could not, after all, reach up or around to touch him. He let his breath fall hot and heavy on the back of her neck, watching in pleasure as another shiver rocked her thin frame.

This time, he let the fingertips of his right hand reach around, sliding across her stomach, down enough to tease and then back up. She swallowed hard and tried to lean back against him. He stepped back quickly and she stumbled, nearly falling, her hands once again jerking up in an instinctual move to catch herself, though they did little good. She was shaking a little when she righted herself, like her confidence had been shaken.

He felt a little guilty, for that, but the sooner she realized how vulnerable she was, the easier his task was going to be. Swiftly, he dropped to his knees and yanked her back by her hips, sinking his teeth into the curve of her ass and delighting in the shriek she let out seconds before she drew in a shaking breath that sounded suspiciously like arousal.

He knew the key to this was taking it slow, of course, but he was tempted enough to skip ahead a few steps, just to test how well his experiment was working so far. Any working experiment needed frequent checks throughout the process, didn't it? To rule out extraneous factors and scientific anomalies and… and…

He let out a deep groan as his thumbs pressed on either side of her thong and up past her first tight ring of muscle. She was so wet it made his head spin. His hands on her ass quivered and before he knew it, he had both thumbs moving slowly up and down together, teasing her by not going deeper.

Her hands were clenching and unclenching in their restraints, her stance widening, her head thrown back in both pleasure and frustration. He didn't stop until her hips started rocking in time with his movements, seeking more, trying to take control.

No, he couldn't have that.

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><p>There was something wrong with her. There was no other explanation for it. Because—and make no mistake about this—Gil Grissom was good at what he did. Even if he didn't turn her on like no man ever had, which he did, he could play her body like a master on a Stradivarius. There was no reason why she hadn't had more orgasms in the six months they'd been together than in the entirety of the rest of her life—but she hadn't.<p>

And it wasn't that she didn't get anywhere. Oh, no. She climbed those beautiful, blissful heights of pleasure every time, hovering on the edge of something beyond reasoning… she just never went over. It was that final plunge.

She had become orgasm-deficient.

Well, at least when he was around. She could still take care of herself pretty easily. Sure, after having a taste of him, nothing she did herself really seemed to compare, but even if she never went as high as she would have with him, she at least got her release, rather than being left to fall from those heights into nothing.

A horny, female Icarus.

Maybe it was too much to ask for after all: She had finally gotten the love of her life, and it was probably more than she deserved to have him be a sex god too. Whatever deity up there that had determined it was too much good fortune for one person couldn't remove Gil's earth-shattering talent, but he could keep Sara from being shattered by it, so to speak.

If it weren't disappointing him and making him doubt himself, each and every time, it would still be enough for her. She was happy to service herself when in need of the actual release, and just make love to him the rest of the time. The boy's wax wings were meant as a warning tale, but hadn't they gotten him closer to greatness nonetheless? Glory like that might be unsustainable, but it was life-altering while it lasted.

And she wanted it, while it lasted.

But that didn't change how Gil felt about it. Even if she could come to terms with only coming alone for the rest of her life—if he stuck around that long—it was wearing away at him. He'd stopped asking her if she was close or if she thought she could finish, but that didn't mean he'd stopped trying. The man nearly gave himself a heart attack trying to surprise them both by evoking her elusive orgasm.

So if he had an idea he thought would help, well… she would try almost anything once, and she trusted him. If it was something he needed to try, then she would indulge him and hope it worked, even if it was a little… Well, outside of her comfort zone, actually. She wasn't a prude, but she'd certainly never worn a harness… Lots of people played around with bondage but this… this was another level.

Even if this didn't work—and it probably wouldn't; bondage had never really been a fetish of hers—it was worth it alone to see his face when she informed him that she already had a few of the items on the impressive list he had in mind for her to wear. Admittedly, the knee-high leather boots were less S&M and more JCPenneys—they went great with the rare skirt, though she had worn skirts and dresses far more often in San Francisco than she ever did in Vegas. (Not that she'd had much occasion to dress like that since moving to the desert anyway.) The fishnet thigh-highs… Let's just say they were the last remnant of a very amusing Halloween back in Boston.

Still, the look on the man's face when she'd casually glanced at the list he'd made out on a yellow legal pad, very precise and scientific, and said, "Oh, you don't need to worry about these two. I've got both." was… priceless, truly. He looked like the vein in his temple was going to explode.

She hadn't anticipated how nervous she'd be, though. The man had seen her naked hundreds of times, and yet walking out of the bedroom in the tight satin and lace lingerie, the thigh highs and the soft leather boots… she had the sudden conviction that she could not, _really_, could _not_, pull this look off. Surely he would take a single look at her and laugh, realizing that she just wasn't the right woman to pursue this fantasy with.

She wished, with conviction, that she could carry herself the way Lady Heather did.

He didn't seem disappointed, however, when he first laid eyes on her, despite the fact that she couldn't stop running her hands over the little tummy she was self-conscious about. No, he'd stood there watching her for several long minutes, his breathing heavy, looking like he was going to pass out. She didn't speak, maybe because she was nervous, but maybe also because she was worried she would break the spell. To her great astonishment, he was looking at her like he'd never seen anything so enticing, and she liked that look.

Finally, he did come to her, moving slowly, as if he thought a wrong move would send her running away like a startled deer. Did she look that skittish? That afraid? His hands cupped her face and his mouth descended, stealing her breath and making her head spin with the contact. Ohhhh, the man was a good kisser. Slowly, his attentions moved to her neck, and her eyelids fluttered as he murmured how beautiful she looked… before pulling out the harness.

She didn't know if she was blushing from the compliment that came at a particularly vulnerable moment, or if it was from the appearance of the device, but she knew her face was burning as he offered her his hand and helped her to step into the leg holes as he pulled it up around her. He had given her the opportunity to inspect it before they ever started this little encounter, wanting to ensure she knew what she was getting into, but she wasn't so sure it had helped.

Sure, when she'd felt her hands being tightened against her thighs, she might have worried a little, and the length of silk that slid over her head, around her neck, and tightened in back might have scared the shit out of her, thinking he was going to choke her… But even the knowledge that it was purely for restraint wasn't preventing her heart from racing or her breathing from becoming labored, and her palms might as well be dripping for how sweaty they were.

Her attentive lover moved about her silently, tightening everything into place, until she was standing with her shoulders back to prevent pressure on her neck, her hands at her sides. "Touch me," he murmured into the dark stillness of the living room that somehow at this moment felt so much darker and more foreign than ever before. Despite her fear, she found herself strangely aroused by her situation—by the clothes she wore and Grissom's obviously positive reaction to them, and by the harness itself, which was so outside her normal realm of experience, and yet which had awakened something almost primal within her. Fear should not be an aphrodisiac, but to some extent it was working that way.

Fear might not be the right word. She was a little afraid, but mostly she was just so filled up with… anticipation. Her skin was alive and tingling with it. She reached up to touch him, and was reminded forcibly that her hands would not move more than a few inches from her body. She felt shame wash over her with the realization that she hadn't thought the action through, and stepped forward, intent upon proving that she could work around her restraints and live up to his fantasy. She grasped his thighs and looked up at him, uncertainly.

He was grinning in a deep, ferocious kind of way that gave her the sudden urge to exclaim, "What big teeth you have…" She shivered as the thought of being a very naughty Little Red Riding Hood slipped through her brain, and a moment later he was kissing her softly again, seeming to want to reassure her as much as possible before they fully began.

Then, he pulled out the blindfold. "…Trust me?" He whispered, and she shivered again as she nodded, battling internally to define her sudden impatience. She wanted this so badly, and she couldn't decide if she was genuinely this aroused by the situation, or if she wanted to hurry up and get to the part where she was fulfilling Gil's fantasy. The silk length slid over her head, cutting off her vision, and his voice in the stillness reminded her that she could stop him any time. She nodded, shifting slightly to ease the pressure building between her thighs, and tried with all her might to figure out what he was doing based on sound alone.

His breathing was still heavy, and for a moment she wondered why he was just standing there, until the rustle of clothing being removed and the small metallic sounds of a belt buckle reached her ears. She squirmed a little, imagining his naked form in all the minute details she had catalogued from their encounters. The very light dusting of hair on his chest and the line of it beneath his naval, the broad, solid stretch of his shoulders and chest, muscled and firm. The curls at the base of his neck and the way his shoulder blades felt under her palms as they flexed and how his eyes flashed their desire in the darkness. The hot, velvety press of his erection in her hands, or her mouth, or between her thighs—the ecstasy that each of these inspired, not only for her own pleasure, but for the bliss of watching him reach his own. Knowing that she had given him his release was, quite honestly, the most arousing thing she could imagine.

She shivered at her thoughts, and at the burning feeling of her flesh as she felt his gaze move over her. He was slowly circling her, and she was tracking his progress, attempting to predict when and where and how his first touch would come. He slid up behind her, breathing hot on her neck, and despite her anticipation, she jumped in surprise and then moaned at the first contact. His fingertips skated from her hips, over the tiny waistband of her thong, up over her sides, to brush against the sides of her breasts and retreat.

Her hands jerked up in response, being halted once again at her sides, and a violent shudder shook her frame as the breath on her neck continued. Jesus Christ, she needed him to touch her. His fingertips came again, sliding down the center of her stomach and back again, leaving her swallowing heavily and trying to back into him; anything to encourage him to stop teasing her. Anything to get some skin-to-skin contact with him. When she did, however, he'd obviously moved and made no attempt to catch her or steady her. She stumbled awkwardly and, with her hands restrained, struggled to prevent herself from falling, knowing she had no way to brace herself.

Her mind was racing as she righted herself. He truly would have let her fall. She couldn't see and had no defenses with her hands tied, and the silk at her throat had pulled painfully when she'd bent her body forward to catch herself. She felt shaky and exposed and uncertain. This no longer seemed like a normal sexual encounter with a few kinky accessories that served more for show than anything else. …No, this was another realm and she was scared, a little. Her stomach felt tight and uneasy and she could feel her fight or flight reflex warring within her, making her all the more aware of her body and its precarious position.

Suddenly, she was yanked backwards by two strong hands on her hips, and she had teeth digging into the curve of her ass before she'd even gotten her bearings. Even under the blindfold her eyelids fluttered, and the tight feeling in her stomach intensified as her underwear got wetter between her thighs. She thought maybe she'd screamed when she'd been pulled back, but she wasn't sure now. She just knew that she was shaking and breathing hard, trying to get a grip on this situation. She couldn't decide if she was more frightened than she was turned on, until his palms laid flat against the exposed cheeks of her ass, thumbs down, and slowly slid until those thumbs were pushing past the scrap of fabric between her legs and up into her, just enough to tease.

She shuddered at the feeling, rough and unfamiliar, and certainly not deep enough. She felt her inner muscles tighten around his digits impatiently, and let out a guttural sound that could not possibly have come from her as they slowly started to move within her. Her fists were clenching and unclenching, her legs widening, hoping to encourage him to deepen his strokes, and her head was thrown back, her neck unable to support it any longer.

Jesus fuck, if he didn't go deeper, faster, harder, she was going to lose her mind.

She started rocking with him, anything to encourage _more_. She bent her knees to get him deeper and rocked her hips faster than he was moving—anything to increase the friction—…and was immediately punished. His hands left her completely, and she nearly collapsed under the weight of her frustration and disappointment. She was quite certain she would spontaneously combust if he didn't do something soon. She was absolutely trembling as she stood there, and she could feel tears in her eyes, whether from emotion or frustration, she couldn't tell.

She jumped when his voice came from in front of her rather than behind, apparently having been too frustrated to pay attention to the sounds of his movement. His words were soft and his tone light, but she felt shame slide through her anyway. "Trying to take control, Sara?"

She was a grown woman for fuck's sake. There was no reason she should be embarrassed at her own desires—and certainly not when they were aimed at a man she'd slept with more times than she could count—but she was. She felt like she'd done something wrong and her parents were giving her the I'm-not-mad-I'm-disappointed look. Like her favorite teacher had just discovered her cheating. Like her brother—or Greg—had walked in on her masturbating.

She swallowed heavily and tried to fight back the heat in her face and the churning in her stomach, and the swooping even lower when he chuckled and leaned close to her, smelling like heat and power and raw masculinity. "You only get to feel good on _my_ terms, honey. And the more you try to take over, the less pleasure you're going to get. Tonight," his fingertips skated up her arm and left her shivering and gasping for breath, "you're mine to play with. Now… Are you going to be a good girl, Sara?"

Anger flashed through her at his words, condescending and belittling and degrading as they were, and she hated herself for the flash of arousal that came with it. She was a mutual partner in this, not some simpering sex slave. She opened her mouth to protest—to maybe even blurt out that this all needed to stop—but his thumbs were now drawing slow circles on the bare skin beneath her breasts and there was a part of her that just _knew_ that the right answer here could be exactly what he was waiting for.

Her face burning with the further shame of it, she blurted out a, "Yes, Sir." albeit a bit petulantly, but the rough pinch of her nipples through the bra had her shaking and her body arching towards him of its own accord. He apparently appreciated that as well. An arm slid around her, cupping her bare ass and dragging her forward to press against him bodily, breasts to groin. She shivered and groaned, soaking in his warmth eagerly, hungry for the delicious skin-to-skin and delighted at the feel of his bare erection pressed between them.

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt but she was afraid to initiate it lest he pull away. His skin felt so good, the solid, sturdy press of warm flesh against her, reassuring her in an otherwise wholly unfamiliar and uncertain situation. No, she couldn't have that. But she whimpered and lifted her lips upward in a silent plea, and was rewarded again, this time by his hot lips covering hers and his tongue plundering her mouth. It was rough and demanding and it had her dizzy as she climbed higher and higher. He had hardly touched her and yet she was already so worked up. So completely far gone.

And then he pulled back from her, gasping, put space between them, and stumbled out a heaving, "Bedroom, Sara. Now."

She had no idea how she was supposed to find her way there, but she'd be damned if she wasn't going to try. She attempted to walk in the direction she was quite certain she'd come from, and she knocked into an end table that should have been on her complete other side. Disoriented, she was grateful when her lover caught her and steered her in the right direction. Carefully, hands out the half foot she could extend them for balance, she wobbled her way forward, being occasionally corrected while she tried to navigate based on where her mind imagined she was.

So it was with great surprise when she was shoved from behind and flew forward, imagining she would hit the floor outside his bedroom door, and instead plopped safely into bed. At least fifteen feet further forward than she'd thought she was. Her head was spinning and as she struggled to lift her face from the bed, she pulled on the neck restraint and felt a slight choking sensation—not enough to restrict breathing, but enough to make her uncomfortable. She stopped, choosing instead to turn her head sideways to breathe, swallowing back the discomfort from her first attempt.

With gentle hands, he rolled her onto her back. She could hear him as he breathed in deeply, watching her. She moved her eyes back and forth behind their lids, and the blindfold, trying to anticipate his next move, cursing the trembling of her hands and the throbbing between her thighs. How primitive—how foolish—to be this turned on by his boorish display of power.

His lips fell to her stomach, his palms flat against the tops of her thighs, his thumbs coming together between her legs again, stroking her through her thong.

"Oooohhhh God!" She groaned, deep and husky, her voice hoarse in the stillness of the room. She had begged him in bed before—more as a means of communicating and of stroking his ego than as a true expression of desperation, of course—but she knew it would be different to do it now. If she were going to whimper out a 'Please, Gil, I want it so badly,' or anything like it, it would not be just asking a lover to stop his tease. It would carry with it all the shame and submission and uncertainty that had come with her previous vocalization.

She bit her bottom lip to contain the urge to speak and end the torture, and instead reached up, attempting to put the situation back in her own hands—literally. Her fingertips came up against the sides of his chest, but the hiss that slid between his teeth told her that her touch was effective, nonetheless. She stroked his sides, and slid closer to center to caress the very edge of his sturdy chest with her thumbs. She loved the feel of him, masculine and solid above her, and it was reassuring to feel him as he had always felt to her, despite their circumstances.

It didn't slow her heartbeat or still the slight tremors as they shook her frame, but it took the word stop—as well as the pleas for mercy—from her lips.

She expected him to force her hands down, but he did not. He kept kissing along her stomach, right on the edge of her tiny underwear, and stroking his powerful thumbs over her thighs. His tongue snaked out, leaving a cooling trail on her overheated skin, and she arched and whimpered, all the muscles in her body wound tighter than she could ever remember them.

_God_, why didn't he just _touch_ her already?

His breath came, feather light, just above her clitoris, and she broke. "Oh, god, please touch me, Gil! Please! I can't take it anymore!"

The shame, the heat in her face, the self-loathing all slid over her, as expected, but the tease did not stop. Kisses, with hardly enough pressure to be called a touch at all, were dropped haphazardly over her thighs. She shuddered, and a sound slid from her throat that was part moan, but mostly whine as he refused to give in, despite her concessions.

There was nothing, then, that she could do to end this. She was at his mercy, completely, and whether he chose to torture her for another hour or give in and grant her reprieve was entirely up to him. Pleading got her nowhere, and not even touching him seemed to affect him enough to steer him in the right direction.

Despite his ministrations, there was a definite moment of desperation—a pity party behind her blindfold—where she wanted nothing better than to exclaim that it wasn't _fair_ and shout for him to stop, if only to ruin his fun. Stupid fucking man thinking he could have all the power… dress her up and tie her up and play with her as if she were some kind of sex toy. Especially after months of going unfulfilled, and not blaming him, only blaming herself. What other woman would do that? What other woman would say, 'Sure, blindfold me and tease me for an hour, even though I know there's no fucking reward for it at the end of this because you. can't. get. me. off.' Fuck! What other woman would have stuck around this long without an orgasm anyway?

Both thumbs slid up inside her quickly as the fingers of one hand pulled aside her thong so his mouth could wrap around her clit and suck, hard. She gasped, and his thumbs flexed upwards together, hitting her g-spot with expert precision. Her toes curled, her nails dug into the sheets, her back arched so hard so thought her spine might snap, and an inhuman sound rolled up from the very depths of her, ripping through her throat as she flew into the abyss. Every muscle was tight as she clenched around him, pumping his fingers, endorphins flooding her brain and blacking out her vision and stealing her breath.

It was a long, long time coming down, especially as he didn't stop his movements, coaxing her through one orgasm and into another, admittedly smaller, climax. Her limp body shuddered at the sensations, and every ounce of fight she'd had in her was gone. When he did release her body, it was to remove her bindings and the blindfold, and stare lovingly into her eyes.

She was embarrassed of the tears in them, but he must have known how emotional this would make her, because he did not seem surprised. Instead, he pulled her into his strong embrace, his hot, bare skin surrounding her like a fortress, and she cried into his chest, as bewildered as she was relieved.

He let her exhaust herself, and rocked her softly until she had quieted, and even then cradled her close, until she found the strength to look up at him, finally calm. "You… planned that?"

He shrugged gently under her head, bending to lay a kiss in her hair, his features fuzzy and soft in the dim. "I… hoped it."

She nodded, breathing in deeply. Lingering was the scent of her arousal, mixed with his, though his, of course, was less prominent. Clean sweat and warm bodies added a subtle, more comforting edge to the air, and the sound of his heartbeat beneath her ear grounded her. She swallowed.

"I… don't know if I know what happened."

He slid down, so that her face pressed into the crook of his neck, and his into hers, and they intertwined themselves more deliberately, his fingers tangled in her curls.

"I… hypothesized… that, since you'd never had trouble reaching orgasm with other lovers, that it must have something to do with me."

She was already shaking her head, "No, Gil—"

He shushed gently into her hair, and she stilled, while his free hand slid lazy fingers down her spine, trying to calm and reassure. "I know, honey. That's not what I meant. I meant… that I must be different, to you. …So many years of telling you no, of letting you want me and not have me… it's only natural that you would be a little insecure. And I saw that, those first few times we made love.

"You had me up on this pedestal, and you looked awe-struck to finally have me. I remember it vividly, because it didn't make any sense to me—a beautiful young woman like you, looking at an old, socially-inept, overweight hermit like me, and looking like _you_ had just won the prize. It was… baffling."

"Gil—"

"No, honey. This isn't about me being desirable. This was… more than that. And… it occurred to me that, if you had me up on a pedestal, and you were insecure about how much I wanted to be with you, based on how many times I denied what was between us, well…" He kissed her forehead, and squeezed her tighter. "I, myself, was trying so hard to please you, to make you stay, to prove I could keep up with you… and that was without the insecurity of putting myself out there for five years with nothing in return. It made sense that you would be concerned with pleasing me, and would even equate my relationship satisfaction with my sexual satisfaction."

He waited for another interruption at this point, but it didn't come. He let out a slow breath, and continued. "I thought that, maybe, your inability to let go and… achieve orgasm… might be because you were so worried about pleasing me. You couldn't relax enough, if you felt you had any control over the encounter…"

She swallowed, and pulled him more tightly against her, despite there being no room to speak of between them. "So you… had to take away my sense of control. My power. You had to, literally, break me down and make me vulnerable…" He nodded into her neck, and she blinked rapidly. "God, I'm so fucked up. Why would you even bother with somebody so… broken?" The last word came on a sob, and then he was rocking her again, shushing into her hair, squeezing her so tightly now that it had to be a little painful.

"You're not broken, Sara. …Do you have any idea how… how flattering, how overwhelming… how deeply… loved… I feel… knowing that my pleasure meant so much to you? That the idea of losing me affected you so deeply?" He waited, and when she didn't stop crying nor meet his eyes, he sighed softly, and lowered his voice. "Honey, look at me."

She tilted her head up, and their eyes collided. Hers did look broken, beaten and defeated, and he clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Sara Sidle. I… I'm not so good with… with feelings or… or talking about anything, like this. You know that; you know me. But you need to know this: I have never been more moved by another person in all my years. You're under my skin, you invade my thoughts, you challenge me in ways I never could have imagined before. You are a force of nature that had taken me by the throat and I will never, ever regret finally giving in to everything you promised me, every time you looked at me. …I love you, Sara. I love you, and I'm not _going_ anywhere. Not even if we never make love again. …Okay?"

She nodded, breathless, and kissed him, because there were just no words. Nothing she could say could compare—could express—could even begin to address everything he'd awoken in her, and everything she wanted to give him. She did not mean for it to build into more, but she had waited so long to hear those words, and they were both so desperate to be _closer_.

They started tearing her clothing from her body, needing more skin to skin, needing to be bare for one another in this most honest of moments, needing to give everything and take everything and have everything of the other. It was not slow, or deliberate, or romantic. It was a desperate clamor, a clutching, clawing, squeezing press, with tears streaming down both their faces and gasps slipping from wet, parting lips. Even once he slid inside her, more accident than intention, it could not possibly be _enough_. They rocked against each other, panting into each other's' mouths, closer, closer, closer, the fire racing through them secondary to the need to devour the other entirely.

Sara did not even realize she was close when she felt herself begin clenching around him, when the wave of pleasure met the wave of pain they were already swept up in—closer, closer, closer—and she dissolved around him, the hot pulses within her and their arms around each other the only real things in the world.

As they lay together, still clinging to each other's sweat-slick bodies, panting and kissing and clinging still more tightly, a slow confidence slid over them. A calm strength, light as air, fitting like a second skin around the two of them, indistinguishable in their embrace—around the one of them, a soul finally complete.


End file.
